 | Poems |  |
THE WRECKED HOPE.
There's a low soft song in a chamber,
Where sits, in the darkening room,
A young wife, lulling her babe to rest,
Scarce seen in the deepening gloom;
And her song to her babe is telling
How in hope and in joy she sees
The white sails homeward swelling
To the strain of a favouring breeze,
The good ship bearing its father home
From the far wild southern seas.
Where sits, in the darkening room,
A young wife, lulling her babe to rest,
Scarce seen in the deepening gloom;
And her song to her babe is telling
How in hope and in joy she sees
The white sails homeward swelling
To the strain of a favouring breeze,
The good ship bearing its father home
From the far wild southern seas.
There's a dim drear moon careering
Through the dark grim clouds on high,
And a waste of billows tossing
Beneath the stormy sky,
And a wave-wash'd form upheaving
At times to the moon's wan gleams,
Around which the wild sea rages,
And the grey gull wheels and screams:
And the form is his of whose safe return
Afar his young wife dreams.
Through the dark grim clouds on high,
And a waste of billows tossing
Beneath the stormy sky,
And a wave-wash'd form upheaving
At times to the moon's wan gleams,
Around which the wild sea rages,
And the grey gull wheels and screams:
And the form is his of whose safe return
Afar his young wife dreams.
| Poems | |